Sober Awakening
by Kristine Thorne
Summary: This is a story focussing on Connie after Will's funeral. One shot.


Disclaimer: All characters belong to the BBC, though I'd quite like Ric and Connie to be mine. 

A/N: If possible, try listening to Pieces of you by Jewel while reading this. 

Sober Awakening

"She's a pretty girl, does she make you think nasty thoughts? She's a pretty girl, do you want to tie her down?"

As Connie poured yet another glass from the bottle of Scotch on her desk, the words began to make an impression on her. Was she a pretty girl, well, pretty woman now she supposed, because no woman in their early forties could possibly be called a girl. Had she once been a pretty girl, in truth she really couldn't remember, not right now anyway. Was that why Susan had done it? Was it because Connie was better looking than her, and because she finally realised what or who Will had been working with all these months? God, how Connie knew she had wanted Will in those early days, but to have him and get it over with, would have denied her something to play with. "I just wanted to prove I could have you." That's what she'd said to Will at Ric's party, when he'd shown that he was finally willing to give into her advances. 

"She's a pretty girl, do you call her a bitch?"

Connie had been a bitch to Will every step of the way, from humiliating him in front of colleagues, to assigning him cadaver practice. That had been a particularly low life thing to do to someone of his surgical skill, and it made her wince now to remember doing it. 

"She's a pretty girl, does she sleep with your whole town?"

God, Will, I'm so sorry, she thought, as yet another trail of tears began running down her cheeks. Her eyes ought to have run dry by now, but maybe the alcohol was creating more. She had slept with too many people since she'd come to Holby, she knew that, especially as not much of it had made her feel any better. She could remember the day Will had walked in, just as she was getting dressed after Mubbs had left. He'd worn an utterly disgusted look on his face, as if she were the cheapest slag he'd ever come into contact with. But then, having been raised on an estate, and educated at St. Paul's, what else did she really expect. She was sitting in the comfortable swivel chair behind her desk, the CD playing quietly on the computer, and with the whisky bottle and a glass on the desk in front of her. Every now and then, she would turn the chair to face the window, open it as wide as possible, so that her office wouldn't become too filled with cigarette smoke. She knew it was forbidden to smoke in the hospital, and as a heart surgeon she really ought to know better, but she didn't care. When Connie Beauchamp set out to get plastered, she insisted on doing it in her own sweet way. It was nice, the window being directly behind her desk like this, as it meant that she didn't have to move very far in order to reach it. Significant cognitive movement was entirely beyond her at this point, meaning that she probably wouldn't have been able to stand if she'd tried. Jewel's voice was slightly slurred during this particular song, which fitted Connie's mood perfectly. Had she been on her own at home, she may well have joined in, but not here. So, why wasn't she at home? Because Michael, her long-suffering and long insufferable husband, would be neither help nor hindrance to her current state of self-destruct. He simply wouldn't acknowledge it, ignoring her behaviour as if it really made no difference whatsoever to him, which she suppose by now, it didn't. She wondered what he would think, of Zubin's and Peter's insistence that she resign. He'd probably just tell her that it was a mess of her own making. But maybe this was her getting her just deserts, for all the months of professional mind games she put Will through. She'd only wanted to make him a better surgeon, really she had, and he'd been getting there. Susan had been right though, Connie had bullied him, laid into him as she might a rookie, pulling him up for things that either hadn't been his fault, or had been things any good surgeon would miss. 

Ric was aware that Connie was in her office, because in passing he'd heard the faint sound of her music. It was a couple of days since Will's funeral, and Ric had almost been waiting for Connie to crack. He'd tried to be there for her in his understated way, but she seemed determined to get through this alone. Lisa had called his attention to the unmistakable aroma of cigarette smoke, but Ric had told them all that Connie wasn't to be disturbed. Lisa had been about to question this order, but Ric had made it clear that they were to leave Connie alone. There wasn't a single light on in her office, and the blinds were down, but he knew she was still in there. He could still hear the soft, haunting music, and the cigarette smoke was still occasionally in evidence. But when he'd signed off his last patient for the night, and glanced up at the clock above the nurse's station, to realise that it was nearing eleven thirty, he thought it was about time Connie went home. Walking quietly to her office door, he tentatively opened it and walked inside. The only light was either coming from the computer screen, where the CD was still playing, or from the street lamp outside. Connie was sitting with her back to him, leaning out of the window with yet another cigarette. Ric could just make out the bottle of whisky on the desk, next to a half empty glass. After closing the door softly behind him, he switched the light on, provoking a startled exclamation from her. "Jesus Christ," She said, the shock of his appearance for the moment removing any possible slur. "Do you know what time it is, Connie?" He asked, walking over to her as she turned to face him, having flicked the cigarette end out of the window. "I couldn't give a damn," She said, and he could hear the distinct effort she was exerting in order not to slur her words. "I suppose you've come to tell me that my office is no place for lighting up," She added, giving him a belligerent look into the bargain. "Your lungs are your own business," He said matter-of-fatly. "And I suppose the Medical Director can choose to ignore her own rules." "Not, for much longer," She said extremely carefully. "Not what, for much longer?" He queried though he thought he knew what she was talking about. "Medical Director," She said as slowly as if she were speaking to a witless child. "Ask that back stabbing bastard Professor Khan, I'm sure he'll be itching for the opportunity to fill you in." She struggled defiantly with the phrase, "Back stabbing bastard," As the S's seemed to give her something of a problem. "Connie," He said, trying not to laugh at her utterly inebriated state. "Precisely how much have you had of this?" He gestured to the bottle on the desk, which was now three quarters empty. "Well, I bought it this afternoon, so work it out for yourself," She said belligerently, not really wanting any of his well-meant advice right now. "I'm taking you home," He said decisively, though knowing he was going to be inundated with protests from her. "You'll be lucky," She said, with a slight giggle that didn't bear a single ounce of humour. "I doubt if I can even stand, never mind walk as far as the car park." "I see you can still talk though," He replied, thinking that she would want to die of humiliation after this. "Talking's one of the things I usually do best, Mr. Griffin," She purred, clearly now moving into the flirtatious stage of being plastered. "Yes, I remember it well," Ric said dryly, moving round her to switch off the computer, and entirely willing to humour her whilst she didn't know any better. "Is Zu... Zu..." "Zubin," Ric supplied for her, seeing that the name wasn't conducive to being spoken around a brain made up of three parts whisky and only one part blood stream. "Yeah, is he right, did I make every day of Will's working life here complete and utter hell? Was I really the complete bitch you all seem to think I was?" "We all have our moments, Connie, even the Professor himself, the trick is to know how to get passed them." "But I can't ever do that now, can I, not with Will." Fresh tears were running down her face by now, and he gently put his arms round her and held her to him, her head leaning against his chest. "Come on," He said after a while. "You need to go home and go to bed." "I don't want to go home," She said miserably against his shirt. "All bloody Michael will do, is tell me that I'm reaping what I sowed. He's hardly what you might call comforting. Besides, I hardly want to make my reputation any worse, by losing my licence." "Would you like to come home with me?" Ric asked, tilting her face up slightly so that he could see the expression in her eyes. She looked vulnerable, uncertain, as if she didn't know whether or not to accept his offer. "I'm asking you as a friend, Connie, nothing else," He said, realising what her immediate dilemma was. "If I feel too rough to say it in the morning," She said, grabbing hold of the desk to pull herself to her feet. "Thank you." 

Ric kept a solicitous arm round her as they made their way towards the lift, as she didn't seem all that steady on her feet. But when they reached the car park, and she handed over the keys to her Jag, he gave her a broad smile. "I haven't driven since I sold my car to Zubin." "Well, don't you dare get a scratch on it," Connie said as she slid into the passenger seat, her usual forthright tone sounding a little off key in her slurred state. "It's my pride and joy." Adjusting the seat to accommodate his longer legs, Ric put the car in gear, and moved carefully out of the hospital car park, and through the Friday night streets of Holby. "I like the way you drive," She observed after a while, her voice taking on that low, husky drawl that had lured him to his sofa, on her very first day here. "These surgeon's hands are good for something then," He said dryly, belatedly realising that this was probably giving her a come on that neither of them needed. "Understating your talents is hardly character building," She said, laying a provocative hand on his thigh. "Especially seeing as they are so many and varied." "You appear to be alternating between alcohol fueled depression, and sexual frustration," Ric commented with a smile, trying to force his body to ignore her proximity. "And I'm not sure which is worse." "I've never been sexually frustrated in my life," Connie protested vehemently, trying to sound mortally wounded, and failing dismally. "Everyone suffers with that from time to time, even you," Ric said with a laugh, drawing up in front of his flat. "Besides," He said as he switched off the engine. "It must be a while since you slept with Mubbs." "Does the entire hospital know about that?" She asked disgustedly as they got out of the car, and the cold night air made Connie feel extremely dizzy. "Probably," He said, walking round to join her, and pulling her arm through his. "He was so pathetic," Connie said contemptuously as they navigated the stairs up to his bedsit. "You'd have thought orthopaedics was his speciality instead of gynaecology. He didn't know the meaning of the word gentle, and could barely keep it up for longer than five minutes." Struggling not to break into a roar of laughter, Ric held onto her as he unlocked his door, thanking all existing deities that Jess had moved back in with Sean for the time being, meaning that he had the place to himself. Connie had to squint in order to make out the room she was now in, containing a sofa, a double bed, a table, and with a kitchen and bathroom off to one side. "Would you like some coffee?" He asked, wondering if he could get away with telling all and sundry what she'd said about Mubbs. "Definitely not," She replied, sitting down on the end of his bed. "The supposedly bright spark who said that coffee was the quickest way to sober up, was a fucking moron," She said with utter certainty. "It might be the quickest way to make someone throw up everything they've ever eaten, but that's all it does." "You sound as though you're talking from experience," Ric said, going into the kitchen to at least brew himself some, thinking that it was probably going to be a very long night. "We've all been there and done that, Ric, it's a part of growing up." "So, what's your usual hangover cure?" He asked, thinking that he could probably guess. But receiving no answer, he returned from the kitchen, to see that she'd slumped backwards across the bed, passed out cold. "Oh, well," He said matter-of-factly. "At least that'll stop you giving away any more of your dark and deadly secrets." After slipping her shoes off, he gently began to undress her, carefully revealing the beautiful body he could remember so well. He draped her skirt and blouse over a nearby chair, her bra soon joining them. Leaving her in her knickers, he pulled one of his own clean T-shirts over her head, and down to cover those utterly delightful breasts he had almost lost himself in on her first day. Then, turning back the duvet, he tenderly picked her up in his arms, and placed her under the quilt, turning her onto her side and drawing it up over her. Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, he reflected that he was almost glad that she'd ended up with him. None of the other men she'd picked up and thrown away over the last few months would ever have looked after her like this. He knew it was arrogant of him to think such a thing, but it was true. He wouldn't have dreamt of sleeping with her tonight, never mind how many suggestive comments and gestures she might have bestowed on him, because he knew that this simply wasn't what she needed. Connie was deeply hurting over Will's death, the feeling of failure corroding every inch of her spirit. It would be nothing less than downright cruel to take advantage of her at such a time. After drinking a cup of tea, Ric undressed and crawled into bed beside Connie, cuddling himself round her from behind, laying an arm over her almost as if to keep her warm. He could smell the combination of her perfume and cigarette smoke in her hair, and hear her soft, gentle breathing. Hoping she would sleep soundly for at least a few hours, Ric gradually allowed his eyes to close. 

When Connie awoke around seven on the Saturday morning, it took her a little while to work out where she was. Being held as she was wasn't something that would have happened to her if she were at home with Michael. When the events of the evening before began to resurface, Connie groaned in utter mortification. How could she have let her guard drop quite so much, as to allow Ric to bring her home with him? She could hear his slow, deep breathing, and still feel his left arm tucked around her as she lay on her right side. Connie's head was banging, and her stomach was continually churning. Ric had heard her wakening groan, even in the depths of sleep. It came from being a parent, he supposed, the instinctive awareness of what one's children were up to over the years. "How do you feel?" He asked without altering his position. "Like I belong in the morgue," She replied, sounding as though she felt thoroughly sorry for herself. "And please don't tell me I've only got myself to blame," Connie added stonily, wondering if she could stay perfectly still for the rest of her life. "I've had my fair share of hangovers," He said, certainly not prepared to condemn her for doing what she'd done. "Would you like a cup of tea?" He asked her, feeling her almost rigid desire to stay still, and thinking that tea might settle her stomach. "Not sure if I can keep it down," She said miserably. "Time you found out then, isn't it," Ric replied, gently disentangling himself from her and getting out of bed. "Am I supposed to say thank you?" Connie asked sarcastically from the depths of the duvet. "No, not necessarily," Ric said from the kitchen as he filled the kettle. "You said it last night, in case you felt too rough to say it this morning, your words not mine." "And just what other pieces of divinely accurate wisdom did I come out with last night?" She asked as he returned and perched on the edge of the bed, only wearing his boxer shorts. "I'll tell you, when you're a little more coherent to feel the benefit," He said, which didn't make her feel very optimistic. 

When he reappeared with a mug of steaming hot tea, she gingerly sat up, making no sudden movements that might remind too much of her body that it still existed. She took the mug in her slightly trembling hands, giving him a lopsided smile in lieu of thanks. But as she raised the mug to her lips, she caught the wafting aroma of the tea, her senses reeling from the smell. Slamming the mug down on the bedside table, and barely noticing the sting of the scalding liquid as some of it spilt from the mug onto her fingers, she lurched out of bed and headed straight for the door which she assumed led to the bathroom. Ric didn't think he'd ever seen anyone move so fast, especially as hung over as Connie was, but he had to admit to being grateful that she did. When he stood over her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder, Connie shrank away from him, not wanting him to witness her humiliation. This just could not be any worse, she thought to herself. Here she was, kneeling on the floor as though at confession, throwing up what felt like her entire insides. When he drew her hair back from her face, and laid a cool, damp cloth over her sweating forehead, she screwed up her eyes, trying to convince herself that he wasn't seeing her in such a humiliating, submissive position. When she thought that there couldn't possibly be anything left inside her, she flushed the toilet and got unsteadily to her feet. As Ric silently handed her a spare toothbrush, she used the damp cloth to wipe her flushed face. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she said, "I swear this is the most unattractive I've ever looked in my life." Making no comment either way, Ric left her to clean her teeth. 

When she stumbled back to bed, she was slightly shivering. "Are you cold?" He asked, getting back into bed beside her. "I think it's what they call after shock," She said, reaching for her tea and taking a tentative sip. Lying back down and pulling the duvet over her, she turned to face him instead of away. "Have I made a total and utter fool of myself?" She asked, not quite meeting his gaze. "Having once been arrested with a stash of dope in my pocket, in front of far too many of my colleagues, I am hardly in a position to comment," Ric told her. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" She asked, though knowing that it did. "I've been wondering when something like this might happen," Ric said carefully, hoping she might be in a mood to talk. "Have the cracks been that visible?" She asked, thinking that she'd been trying her hardest to keep it together, yet obviously failing. "Connie, you are grieving," He told her gently. "So doing something that isn't part of your usual behaviour, is perfectly normal. This is compounded by the fact that you are feeling incredibly guilty. Whether that is or isn't deserved, is something that only you have the right to comment on." "Why, are you being so unbearably nice to me?" She asked, the tears finally rising to her eyes. "Because any further criticism certainly isn't mine or anyone else's to make," Ric said firmly. "And because it wouldn't do you any good to hear it." Connie felt entirely thrown. Here she was, lying in Ric's bed, and feeling as though her heart would break. He was being so good to her, when she really didn't deserve it. Part of her wanted to be in his arms again, to take comfort in the one embrace that she hadn't tried to forget. Yet another part of her wanted to keep her distance from him, to somehow resurrect the barriers she usually managed to hide behind. As if sensing her dilemma, Ric tentatively put out his arms to her, gradually persuading her to lie against his chest. "Zubin couldn't wait to stick the knife in after the funeral," She began, the tears now coming thick and fast. "He's been trying to find something to pin on me for months, and now he's finally got what he wanted. Yet do you know what he said, when I was sat there in ITU, waiting for Will to wake up? He said that I'd just wanted Will to be a good surgeon. Was that such a bad thing, wanting a registrar to succeed?" "Of course not," Ric told her, running his fingers gently through her hair, and thinking that Zubin really had stooped far too low this time. "I didn't mean to bully him, not really. I'm just terrible at dealing with people who start off by begrudging the position I've worked all my life to achieve. Will hated the fact that a woman had power over him, and I hated the fact that he had a title, neither of which was anyone's fault. The trust are going to have a hearing next week, to decide whether or not I should be forced to resign over the way I treated Will, and your illustrious friend, Professor Khan, will be in effect prosecuting me. God, he's going to enjoy every single minute of that particular exchange. Why did he bother saying all that to me the night Will died, if he was only going to turn the other cheek when the opportunity arose?" "I gave up trying to fathom the workings of Zubin's mind years ago," Ric said dryly, but thinking that it was about time Zubin came down off his high horse. "Connie, I'm not going to tell you that the way you treated Will was always professional, and I'm not going to tell you that you didn't ever make mistakes with him, but your working relationship wasn't what killed him." Connie was silent for a little while, trying to take this in. "I keep thinking that there was something else I should have done," She said eventually, her tears having dried. "I can't get away from the fact that I didn't have enough skill to keep him alive." "And that's what every single one of us does, when someone we either work or live with dies, and we were the last ones to operate on them. It doesn't mean you weren't good enough, it just means that you tried everything possible, and that even divine intervention probably couldn't have saved him. Take Alistair Taylor for example. He operated on his baby, when she was barely a few hours old, because Anton Meyer was tied up somewhere else. He absolutely shouldn't have done that, if he'd been sticking by hospital policy, but he wasn't about to see his child die, just for lack of a surgeon. You attempted far more for Will than other surgeons might have done in your position. You tried to perform a miracle, and for a while, it worked, but you know as well as I do, that miracles aren't always possible." "Why do you talk so much sense?" She said with a smile. "It's infuriating." "You wouldn't say that, if you'd ever seen me at the casino," He said self-deprecatingly. "When there's a horse to be backed, or a stake to be handed over, I haven't got an ounce of sense in my entire body." "How long is it?" She asked, never before having heard him talk about his gambling. "Since you last did?" "Five and a half months," He said with a little laugh, thinking it sounded a pretty pathetic amount of time compared to all the years he couldn't stop gambling. "Well done," She said simply, knowing that he wouldn't take any kind of effusive complement seriously. "Last weekend was somewhat difficult," He found himself admitting to her. "Because of the National," She supplied, thinking of the hype that always surrounded this annual race. They lay there talking for a good while longer, but eventually, Connie's emotional exhaustion caught up with her. She had her arms around Ric, and lay with her head on his chest, the reassuring thud of his heart in her ear. Ric lay with her for a time, just letting her sleep. Connie still had a very long way to go, but he hoped that she might have taken the first step on the road to recovery. As for Zubin, and what he meant to do in the name of hospital politics, well, Ric might just have to have a word or two with him the next time he saw him. After an hour or so, he carefully disentangled himself from her, and went to take a shower, leaving her to sleep as soundly as her dreams would allow. 

When Connie woke a few hours later, her headache had dulled, and she felt a lot more human. Pulling herself from the bed, it only just dawned on her precisely what she was wearing. Borrowing Ric's shirts was becoming something of a habit, she mused to herself. Ric was sitting out on his balcony, reading the paper and drinking coffee. As she stood under the shower, letting the hot, steamy droplets bring some life back into her skin, she slowly began to wonder about some of the things she might have said last night. She couldn't remember all of it by any means, but she knew that she certainly could talk when drunk. When she finally emerged, looking pale, disheveled, yet a lot more like her old self, Ric was still taking advantage of the premature warmth of the spring sunshine. Digging her cigarettes out of her handbag, she went out to join him. "You look a bit brighter," He observed as she appeared. "Less like Dracula's better half, you mean," She said, perching on a plastic chair and lighting a cigarette. "I forgot to ask," She added, taking a long and satisfying drag. "Did I say anything truly incriminating last night?" "Not incriminating for you, no," Ric goaded her with a smile. "Though I did learn far more than I really wanted to know about Mubbs Hussain's less than accommodating sexual skill." "Oh, no," Connie groaned in resigned acceptance. "Hmm," Ric said thoughtfully. "What was it? Oh yes, that his speciality ought to have been in orthopedics instead of gynaecology." Connie laughed on an exhalation of smoke. "Apart from that, and calling Zubin and your husband more names than I care to remember, that was about it really." "I'm sorry," She said, turning serious again. "I do tend to regress to my working class upbringing when I drink too much." "Nothing I haven't heard before," He said dismissively. "I am really sorry about last night, and this morning." "As long as you don't end up like Tom Campbell-Gore, it's not a problem," He told her firmly. "But Connie, just promise me one thing. You do know where to find me, so in future, if you need to rant, or to cry, or just to talk, please come and find me. I don't like seeing you as distraught as you were last night, or as you have been for the last week. Zubin might be a personal friend when it suits him, but that doesn't mean I agree with him on this. Okay?" Connie just stared at him. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. There was such a maelstrom of conflicting feelings buzzing round in her head, from a desire to maintain control, to a compelling urge to take the comfort and support he was offering her. "Thank you," She said a little hoarsely, reaching out to briefly touch his hand, and knowing that whilst she might not always seek his listening ear when she needed it, she would do it from time to time. It wasn't every day that she received an offer such as this, that for once, had absolutely nothing to do with sexual attraction. As she left a little while later, driving her car home to that dull and emotionally empty house, it struck her that in spite of the small and fairly drab surroundings that Ric lived in, she had felt safe there, cared for, as if her continued existence really did matter to someone. God, this must be the ice queen melting, she thought to herself. You see, Will, this is what you've done to me, you've made me begin to let someone in, not something I previously thought remotely possible. 


End file.
